


steam:

by bobtheacorn



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Series, Water 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobtheacorn/pseuds/bobtheacorn
Summary: "What's Franky so fixated on that pirate ship for, anyway?" Iceberg mutter, "He acts like he's never seen one before in his life.""Ah, it's in the boy's blood, is all," Tom says, dismissive and smiling, "Even though he knows first-hand how pirates can be, he's still curious about them.  That dream ship of his - he probably wouldn't be sorry if it turned out to be a pirate ship!   Ta ha...!  Ha..!""He's going to get himself into trouble."But Tom laughs at that, too, "Well, then he'll just have to learn to get himself out of trouble, won't he?"//We accumulate a number of things over the years.





	1. rolling in against the shore

Very early on, Iceberg is still in a bit of awe.

He finds himself sitting up well into the night at Tom's drawing desk, with just the lamp light for company.  He paws through the stack of blueprints for the Sea Train, looking over every detail, pulling the papers up close to his face to read Tom's cramped writing.  He can hardly wrap his head around it.  Tom has spent the last several months trying to finish these, perhaps much longer simply fostering the dream, and he told the judge it could be done in just ten years.  Iceberg does the math with silent ease, slips another thick blue sheet of drafting paper to the bottom of the stack.  He'll be in his twenties, then.  It's hard to imagine.

And holding Water 7's last hope in his hands, knowing the sheer scale of what they're going to be doing...

To Iceberg, it seems a fantastic, impossible feat.

But good old Tom sleeps as soundly as ever.  This is the first time in a long while that Iceberg has seen him turn in before everyone else, or sleep the full night without tossing and turning.  He's tired from the day's work and content with their progress, though it hardly seems like progress at all, when Iceberg thinks of all the work that's still ahead.  He's just as worn out as Tom is, but can't seem to shut off his brain once it's time to stop.  He's too eager to keep working to lay down and rest, too full of that familiar ache in his muscles, that soreness in his hands.

Around the fishman's girth, Franky lifts his head, hair mussed from rolling around, looking surly, and Iceberg frowns right back at him, lowering the stack of paper with a soft rustle that seems incredibly loud in the warehouse.  Franky scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Idiotberg," he grumbles, voice lost in a sleepy roughness that will be more commonplace in just a few short years, "Cut the light off, we're tryin'a sleep here."

Iceberg keeps his own voice low when he replies, though he's merely teasing, "I don't see why you're acting so tired, all you do is play all day long."

"Hey!  What I'm doin' is real work, too!"

Franky raises his voice at the slight and Tom startles them both into silence when he guffaws in his sleep, turning over onto his side, away from the light.  Franky bares his teeth in a grimace, tugging blankets out of his way, and Iceberg reaches up to cut off the lamp.  He tucks the blueprints safely back into the drawer of Tom's desk, and when he climbs over Tom's slender legs to get to his own pallet he stomps Franky in the hip, mutters under his breath, "You're the one that's going to wake everyone!"

He gets elbowed in the ribs as he's settling under the blankets.

"You're the one makin' me yell, ice for brains!" Franky says between his teeth, face half-buried in the pillow, hands and knees all pushing into Iceberg's space until Iceberg makes an aggravated noise and shoves him back against Tom.  The fishman's stomach gives, he huffs out a  _ tah _ , but doesn't stir again.

"You're not coming over here to me," Iceberg says, a foot in Franky's chest to keep him at bay, "If Mr. Tom's on your pallet then turn him over."

Franky grumbles, "He weighs like a ton, you try turnin' him over!" and he wads himself up in the folds of his blanket, lays diagonally between Iceberg and Tom and curls around his pillow.  He's out again in no time at all, and Franky sleeps like the tide rolling in against the shore, just as soundly as Tom does.  Iceberg has given up shoving the unwanted limbs off, because if it's not a leg across him, it's an arm, or Franky as a whole, and he has learned to deal with these small annoyances, tucking his head underneath the pillow so he doesn't get kicked in the ear or the nose.  He's used to the movement, the noise and the warmth, and without them, by now, he probably couldn't sleep at all.

He can't imagine it being any different, years down the road.


	2. the castings

"Oh my.  They're broken alright."

The last three fingers on Franky's right hand have certainly seen better days.  They're mangled after being caught in one of the end bearings, still bleeding despite the steady pressure Iceberg is applying, Franky's hand clamped between the two of his.  The oil-stained rag from his back pocket probably wasn't the wisest choice, but he had it in his hands when he pried the bearings apart, and in his defense he wasn't really considering an infection at the time.  He thought for certain Franky had lost his hand - and he's seen people work with less, but not shipwrights, and the cold panic is still sitting heavy in his chest.

When Iceberg peels back the rag to take another look, gingerly pinching one of Franky's trembling fingers to feel out the severity of the break, Franky grits his teeth, but he doesn't cry.  He squirms on the crate he's sitting on, scuffs his feet against the broken boards and dirt and bounces his knee.  His left hand curls into a tight fist.

"Hey, be easy, damnit!"

His voice breaks.

_ Not that it hurts or anything _ doesn't make it out this time - probably because it hurts quite a lot.  Iceberg covers Franky's hand again, eyes narrowed.  He squeezes harder than is entirely necessary and Franky pushes his feet against the ground, the heel of his left hand banging against the edge of the crate.

"I told you that same thing not ten minutes ago, Flaky.  You don't listen!"

The slight waver in his voice is pure annoyance.  With some of the blood sopped up, the wound doesn't look as bad as he thought it might be, but there is no disputing that he will be the one picking up the slack while Franky's hand heals.  It will take twice as long because he will insist on doing work that he can't and won't give his fingers the time to heal properly.  And they've had so much trouble trying to get the running gear aligned...

Leaning over the two of them, Tom casts a broad shadow.  He takes the tension right out of them both when he sees that everything is alright and he booms with laughter.  Franky grins up at the shipwright, though it's more a grimace of pain as he raises his free hand, puts his thumb up.  Iceberg sighs, adjusting the rag around Franky's fingers to a cleaner section.

All of Franky's fingers are accounted for and that's all that matters.

-x-

"We'll need more iron," Tom says over the top of his bowl, chewing slowly while he thinks, chopsticks  _ clacking  _ on the porcelain.

The splints on Franky's broken fingers came off yesterday, but the bandages haven't.  Kokoro says to let them breath a little in between changing the bandages every night, tells him not to pick at the scabs because they'll bleed and make the scarring worse.  They still hurt like hell.  They're kinda stiff when he tries to bend them and they itch like crazy, swell up when he uses his hand too much, so he can barely use them at all by the end of the day - but that doesn't stop him from cupping the bottom of his bowl and lifting it off the table.  (It's not to hide his face - that'd be stupid.)  The warmth eases the throbbing in his fingers a little, the bandages blocking most of the heat.

The steam rises up, fogging his goggles and warming his cheeks, the broth burning his tongue.

"I  _ know _ where we can get more iron," Iceberg says, in that smart ass way that makes Franky shovel more noodles into his mouth, though he can't really taste them, now.

The past couple of days, they've been pulling the bolts out of rotten boards, scrubbing rust off of patch plates and disassembling any unused rigging from the scrapped ships on the island to get enough iron to fill the castings Tom made.  Iceberg has spent hours in the warehouse dock melting it all down, maintaining the temperature in the crucible, pumping air into the furnace and filling the molds.  His skin is still flushed from the heat, even now that he's been away from it for a while; ash smearing his face and arms, cleaner streaks in the dark where he's sweat through it.  He's staring hard at Franky, but Franky pretends not to notice.

He keeps his face shoved into his bowl, his heart beating hard in his chest.  He finished another Battle Franky today and it's his best design yet!  Almost tough enough to stand up to a Sea King!  He doesn't think he should feel like garbage just because he used some of the scrap iron that was lying around - it wasn't like he knew they would need  _ all _ of it, it's just a bunch of  _ junk _ , anyway, and Tom told him he could do what he wanted with it.

Tom didn't laugh when Franky showed him the new blueprints.

He didn't tell Franky they didn't have the time or resources for him to work on his own project.

But Iceberg... has a point.

Franky doesn't like the way the last of his broth tastes as he gulps it down, too hot to swallow.  It hurts his throat.  He squeezes his eyes shut and forces it down.  Tom's laughter shakes the table and Kokoro rolls her eyes, tells him to quiet down even though there's that weird smile on her face as she stands.  She wrestles Franky's empty bowl out of his hands and takes Tom's, as well, so she can get them both seconds.

"Leave his Battle Frankies alone, Iceberg," Tom says, and Iceberg looks about to protest, but Tom is still laughing, helping himself to a roll from the basket on the table.  Franky wishes he had something in his hands, something to hide behind.  He chews on the ends of his chopsticks and stares at Yokozuna as the frog licks his own bowl.  Iceberg lets out a sigh through his nose, raising his own bowl to his lips while he watches Tom.  "He worked hard on them.  Besides, his ships are no less important than mine."

At that, Iceberg scoffs, the sound hollow and wet.

"The Sea Train is way more important.  Flaky only builds ships for himself - and they're just goofy weapons!"

"Hey!" Franky snaps, banging his right fist on the table.  His hand trembles, comes unclenched.  "At least I'm building ships, ice for brains!"

"What the hell d'you think I'm doing all day?!"

" _ Ta ha..!  Ha...!  Ha!! _  Simmer down, boys," Tom says, before the argument can start in earnest.  Franky hides his hands underneath the table, palms flat against the insides of his thighs to stop his bandaged fingers from shaking and throbbing.  He sees Iceberg staring out of the corner of his eye and resists the urge to stick his tongue out at the jerk.  "We'll just have to take on a couple of jobs in between working on that old train, that's all.  You'll both have plenty of opportunities to build ships with a BOOM!"


	3. the narrow space between hot coils

The warehouse gets drafty in the winter months.

There's really no helping that.  And the cold doesn't particularly bother her or Tom, but Kokoro can at least make sure the apartment where the boys eat, sleep, and learn a thing or two is warm when they come in from working all day long in such unfavorable weather.  The snow's piled up to two feet by now, but it's no surprise to her that they're all three still out there.  Yokozuna's the only one with any sense at all.  He's sprawled out on the floor alongside the heater, trembling underneath the heavy quilt that Franky and Iceberg like to squabble over, and Kokoro pats the amphibian's back with a sympathetic smile, leaning over the top of him to turn the dial up a bit higher.

It's the same heater Tom bought when they first came to Water 7; wrought iron and about ten years older than the latest model, but it still does it's job just fine, lending it's heat to the entire room, warming up the floor where the boys' pallets will go until Kokoro moves it out of the way at night.  (She sets it directly in front of the door so it can block the chill coming in from the dock.  So Franky doesn't burn his arms or legs flopping around in his sleep like a fish out of water.  So Tom doesn't run over the top of it in the early mornings when he gets up in the dark or when he goes to bed late, and so Iceberg doesn't set the warehouse ablaze tossing off his blankets in the middle of the night.)

Kokoro leaves Yokozuna alone in the apartment and goes to finish up her chores before starting supper.  It's a difficult thing doing the laundry when clothes spread out on the line to dry just freeze up, instead.  Kokoro supposes she's lucky the boys don't really have a lot of clothes to wash.  Between the three of them it's mostly shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans (Franky's shorts when she can get him out of them), and most of it fits easily on the lines she has strung up in the bathroom.  She cuts the fan on and props it up on a stool in the doorway to help them dry faster, though it adds to the cold if she doesn't keep the door closed.

Kokoro folds the clothes that are dry, rotates the few that aren't to the front, and puts them all away in the single chest of drawers in the back of the utility room.  She sweeps the apartment around Yokozuna, who's fallen asleep.  She peels the potatoes, chops the vegetables, sets the water boiling, and then goes to the books in between.  The soup is ready, simmering on the stove - the checkbook is balanced, any orders Tom needs to oversee laid out on the desk, the budget for the month filled in, the grocery list written - when they finally come in late that evening, shuddering and stomping the snow off their boots just outside the door.

The boys crowd around the heater, Iceberg tugging off his gloves with chattering teeth, Franky sticking his hands in the narrow space between the hot coils.  Tom knows better than to get in between them and the warmth.  He's laughing as he takes his seat at the table and Franky climbs over Yokozuna, trying to get closer to the heater.  Franky pulls his coat open and then reaches across the heater, starts tugging on Iceberg's despite the older boy's protests, despite the numb fingers trying to stop him.

He does his best to cocoon the warmth in between the two of them by zipping their coats up together.

It's about the only time out of the year Kokoro can convince him to wear pants, and that's the only thing that saves Franky from burning his knees when he's leaning up against the heater, half-sitting on Yokozuna.  He sticks his head down between the joined collar of their coats, forehead digging into Iceberg's shoulder, hair in Iceberg's face, humming out happy noises.  Iceberg grumbles and complains, draws out a sigh that is far older than he is, but he pulls his arms out of his coat sleeves and keeps his hands in between them so the heat's directly off of Franky's face.  It also provides a nice advantage, when Franky starts shouting around the collars that he's starving and can't wait a moment longer.

When Iceberg punches him in the ribs and tells him to be patient ( _ "Ms. Kokoro's worked all day, too, Flaky!" _ ), Franky has nowhere to go to escape the playful blow.  Laughing, Kokoro dishes the soup out into bowls - a set she has had for years, chipped around the rims from the occasional drop, the blue acrylic paint scratching off in places.  She listens contentedly to the boys fighting, Yokozuna  _ ribbeting _ in protest when he's stepped on, Tom's loud laughter filling up the room.


	4. one cool cat

"Iceberg!  Are you feeding the mice?!"

It's a rhetorical question.

Kokoro has caught him red-handed and Iceberg looks up from where he's sitting on the floor, his hand resting in his lap, full of crumbled bread.  The warehouse has always had mice.  It's nothing unusual for a few to scramble out of sight when they cut the lights on, nothing to find nests when they clear out junk that's accumulated in unused rooms or holes hidden away behind crates or bundles of cloth or rope that haven't been moved in ages.  Iceberg has already owned up to removing the traps (Franky even helped him).  He's dove underneath the kitchen table after a mouse before, when Kokoro spotted it and threw a wok clear through the kitchen door; shoed them out of the way with his foot as he carried lumber across the dock.

He's caught them when he's found them on ship's they're building, fished them out of the dock when it's full (and Franky has called him  _ "one cool cat" _ so often he can't breathe for laughing when he sees a mouse cupped loosely in Iceberg's hand).  It's only recently that the rodents have become a bit of a problem, appearing in the apartment and the office, gnawing their way into food stores.  And it seems incredibly pointless to lie, now, when there are at least eight mice eating out of his palm.  There's one climbing up his shoulders, it's tiny, prickly fingers tugging at his tanktop - another slipping down his shirt collar, across his chest, and yet another scratching the back of his neck as it crawls up into his hair.

"Oh my," he murmurs, at a loss.

Iceberg moves his free hand so it hangs over the mice in his lap, though Kokoro has obviously already seen them.  They tumble over one another, a couple of them nibbling at the sides of his fingers and climbing into his palm, spilling bread across his legs.  The mouse in his hair tries to come down across his forehead, pushing Iceberg's left eye closed (it loses its nerve and quickly back-tracks).  Kokoro plants her hands on her hips, keeps the large crate of nails in between them.

" _ 'Oh my...!' _  Iceberg, that's why we can't get rid of them!"

"They aren't hurting anything, Ms. Kokoro," Iceberg says - reasonably, he thinks, considering he gives an involuntary jerk when the mouse in his shirt skitters over his ribs - "They don't chew up anything we can't repair, and I thought if I fed them it may keep them out of the pantry - "

"You can't train mice to not go after food, Iceberg - we can't even get Franky to wear  _ clothes  _ half the time, for goodness' sake - "

"The mice would listen better," Iceberg says evenly, certain of that, at least, and Kokoro rolls her eyes.

She turns away, shouts, "TOM!" at the open warehouse door.  Her short heels clack against the concrete and Iceberg hurries to his feet, scooping the mice up in one arm, pinning down the one in his shirt and cupping a hand over the one trying to use his left ear as a ladder.  By the time he catches up with Kokoro, she's already found Tom sitting out on the balcony (Franky right beside him, bare feet swinging in the open air, half-way through his own sandwich and listening with a broad grin).  It doesn't come as much of a surprise when the fishman leans back from the railing and laughs, crumbs falling from his mouth and catching in his beard.

"Ah, Kokoro, they're only mice!" Tom says, and Iceberg feels a warmth creeping up his neck, raises his hand and finds the mouse from his shirt climbing up into his hair with it's friend.  Kokoro sighs heavily and props her hands on her hips as Tom continues, "Besides, if Iceberg says he can keep them out of the pantry, then I'm sure he will!   _ Ta-ha..! Ha..!" _

Iceberg is incredibly glad that Franky's mouth is full so he can't say anything, sees him cover his mouth while his shoulders shake.


	5. barely hanging by anail

It's a strange experience watching other shipwrights work.

Granted, Iceberg would prefer observing from somewhere other than the back of a crowd.  He'd definitely prefer not having Franky's legs wrapped around his neck, trying to squeeze the life out of him as the boy shifts and pushes on his head, trying to get a better look, himself.  At almost fourteen, he's started to spread out a bit - all elbows and awkward, lanky limbs - but he hasn't gotten much taller.  He's still too short to see over other people (something Iceberg doesn't let him forget), and Iceberg had to stop him from simply plowing through the crowd and climbing the fence into the yard when they first arrived.  This seemed like the better option, but now Iceberg is starting to have regrets.

It's not that Franky is particularly heavy, it's that he can't be still to save his life.  Iceberg pinches the inside of Franky's knee again when he leans too far to one side and nearly off balances them both, twisting until Franky yelps and jerks his knee up, curling inward.

"Cut that out, Franky!" Iceberg says when Franky jams a finger into his eye, gripping his face.

He can just see the color of Franky's hair on the edge of his vision, brighter than ever under the glare of the sun.

Franky throws out an arm, the other wrapped around Iceberg's forehead, one foot swinging out.

"They're doin' it wrong!"

Franky's voice carries over the quiet, curious murmuring of the other watchers, over the sounds of saws and hammers and the groan of the crane as it moves lumber across the yard.  A few people turn around to look at them.  Iceberg pinches harder, glaring up.

"Shut your mouth!" he hisses under his breath.

 _"They're doin' it wrong,"_ Franky insists again at a more decent volume.

He rests his elbow against the top of Iceberg's head, drops his free hand down to direct Iceberg's attention to the starboard side of the ship, where they're just starting to lay the boards that make up the hull.  Iceberg is taken aback when he sees what Franky's talking about.  It's a technique Iceberg hasn't seen anyone use before and he watches with rapt interest as the boards go into the sets, the nails get hammered in and the caulking goes between the seams.  Another voice thunders over all the noise, and Franky mumbles something about _"that huge bearded guy bein' loud"_ , but Iceberg - thinking that Franky has no room to talk about _anyone_ being loud, but keeping the comment to himself - is watching the work the man does.

It's certainly not the way they build ships.

"The way they're doing it is fine," he finally says.

Franky has his hands propped on his knees, leaned forward like he doesn't believe it, but Iceberg knows he's watching just as closely.  He's quiet.  That's the only giveaway.  As the sun climbs, the spectators start thinning out, returning to their own jobs - if they have them - or simply seeking shelter from the heat.  Iceberg stays until the shipwrights are about halfway up the bow, laying the floor of the lowest deck, then he jumps his shoulders a little, steps back and away.

"Let's get going," he says, holding tight to Franky's calves so he doesn't get hit in the face during the protest he knows will come, "We can't stand around all day and watch other people work, just because you wanted to see a pirate ship.  Mr. Tom already told you they're no different from any other ship."

Franky unhooks his ankles from where they're crossed, thumping Iceberg in the chest.

"You didn't have to come with me, ice for brains, I could'a come by myself!"

"Ms. Kokoro asked me to keep you out of trouble, and I've already done that twice, now," Iceberg reminds him, and Franky's jerky movements draw attention from anyone that's still hanging around, but they don't stop Iceberg from leaving the dry dock for the backstreets.  He yanks on Franky's ankle when he digs his heel into Iceberg's ribs.  "Running your mouth like that - you know they're professionals, too, right?  You're going to get yourself killed or _worse_ , you'll embarrass the company!"

"That's some messed up priorities you got there," Franky grumbles.  He's laying over the top of Iceberg's head, arms dangling down and holding onto his own legs, trying to get a look at Iceberg's face without having to climb down.  Iceberg lifts his chin enough to look up at him, sees Franky's glaring face, made dark and hazy around the edges by the sunlight above him.  "Come on, Iceberg, what's it gonna hurt to hang out awhile longer?"

"Ms. Kokoro asked us to pick up a few things, remember?"

Iceberg digs a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, holding it up as a reminder.  Franky rolls his eyes (at least, Iceberg assumes he does, from the sigh, "Whatever.").  He pushes on Iceberg's head and slips backwards off his shoulders to the ground.

The list isn't long, but they have to visit a few different shops in order to get everything; they have to walk halfway across town, take an extra long detour because there's a bridge out in the market district, just for the bags of flour Kokoro wanted.  Iceberg lays the paper in his palm and scratches off the items they already have with a carpenter pencil, moving between the barren aisles of the fifth grocery store.  Franky shadows him without saying anything - makes the grocer who is sweeping the front of the store look sideways at them, because he's not wearing any pants.  Iceberg doesn't know how to explain to him that that sort of thing is fine when you're a little kid, but not so much when you're older.

He also figures it's Franky's business, what he wears (or doesn't).

Franky is standing at his elbow, holding one of the bags open and staring down into it.

"Hey," he says, and Iceberg hums, only half listening, "What d'you think those pirates are doin' while those guys build their - ?"

A loud clatter behind the register makes both of them turn.  The grocer has knocked over a small stand of dusty postcards with his elbow and the broom in his hands clatters to the floor.  He tries to right the stand with trembling hands, kneels to pick up the scattered cards, but keeps craning to look out at the street through the open door.  It's corroded with water-damage, the long window in the center cracked.  The man's eyes are wide when he glares at them, cards gripped and folding in his hands.

"Pirates?" he asks, voice pitched much higher than Iceberg remembers it being when he greeted them, "Where did you see pirates?"

"We didn't," Iceberg says warily.

"They're building a pirate ship over at the second Dock," Franky puts in, less so.

The man scoffs - another high noise - and starts sliding the cards back into the small trays on the stand beside the register.  He's still looking out the shop door, grumbling under his breath, "Damn shipwrights.  Pirates are the reason I barely got any business anymore..."  Iceberg isn't sure what makes the man start talking, but when he carries on muttering to himself - cursing the shipwrights for taking business from scum like that, cursing the tide and the island and a number of other things, voicing all his woes and fears - Iceberg takes that as a sign to go.  Franky has miraculously bitten his tongue, settled for glaring daggers at the man, and Iceberg stoops to lift a sack of flour onto his shoulder before the moment passes.

The shipwrights are just as starved for business as everyone else on the island is.  Pirates or not, a ship means a sale.

-x-

Franky goes into town three more times as the week wears on.

Iceberg notices that he's not around because he's not helping, but that's nothing new.  He just assumes Franky's working on another of his stupid battle ships - the newest one, just a few days old, sitting abandoned by the shore and in surprisingly poor condition after its first voyage out to sea.  Franky hadn't wanted to talk about it, and Iceberg had decided not to let it annoy him. At least, until Tom looks up across the top of one of the dented wheels they're trying to get replaced before breaking for lunch.  The fishman starts laughing, "There he goes again, off to see the pirate ship," and Iceberg shifts where he's kneeling in front of the third driving wheel, looking over his shoulder in time to see Franky disappear up the broad set of steps on the bridge.  He huffs out a breath, wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his glove and turns back around.

"What's he so fixated on that ship for, anyway?" Iceberg mutters, hefting the connecting rod again, aligning it with the crankpin and ramming it into place with the heel of his hand, "He acts like he's never seen one before in his life."

Iceberg pulls himself to his feet, walks the line of wheels to be sure all the bolts are tightened.

"It's in the boy's blood, is all," Tom says, dismissive and smiling, "Even though he knows first-hand how pirates can be, he's still curious about them.  That dream ship of his - he probably wouldn't be sorry if it turned out to be a pirate ship!   _Ta ha...!  Ha..!"_

"He's going to get himself into trouble."

But Tom laughs at that, too, "Well, then he'll just have to learn to get himself out of trouble, won't he?"

-x-

The cobblestone is hot under Franky's bare feet and he quickens his pace a little, hiking up the waistband of the stupid khaki shorts Kokoro told him to wear before he left the warehouse.  He doesn't see the point - not like he's running around naked, and even if he did, that's his business, ain't it?  Franky ducks into an alley at the next corner and climbs the narrow stairs, glad for the shade the shortcut provides and the cool, wet stone.  The nicer parts of town see a lot less flooding.  The bridges and houses aren't so rundown, where just about everything here in the lower streets is almost always falling apart.  There's not much that stands a chance against the high tide, anyway.

Aqua Laguna tore out quite a few of the bridges in the backstreets when it came through a few weeks ago.  People have patched their houses up where they took on water damage, drained the few areas that flooded really bad, but there's still water across the streets in a lot of places, debris scattered all over the place.

When Franky comes out onto the main street, behind the second Dock, he lifts his hands to block the sun, squinting against the light.  The pirate ship's still sitting in the dry dock in the yard, the hull finished, the masts in place.  All that's left are the sails and rigging, some of the interior, and Franky laments that he won't get to see the inside.  (He thought about sneaking in at night to get a good look, but Idiotberg heard him talking it over with Yokozuna and knocked him in the head, told him not to go snooping around.)  He's surprised it's taking them so long to finish it, considering how many guys they have - Iceberg and Tom can finish a pretty big ship in just under a week by themselves, a day and a half less if Franky helps out, too.

Still, leaning over the wood fence that's only half-standing, Franky can tell they've done a decent job.

He's eager to see the ship once the flag goes up, wonders if the pirates will paint their jolly roger over the new white sails or if they'll change them out for black ones once the ship is theirs.  It makes him wonder what happened to their old ship, too, as he scans the rest of the yard and kicks his feet, toes bumping against the front of the fence.

There's a small, sneaking voice in the back of his head that tells him he knows exactly what happened to it.  When he took his Battle Franky out to hunt for a Sea King the other day, he remembers seeing a ship - not the sails, certainly not something as small as a flag, and then nothing at all over the huge wave, the set of broad, sharp teeth trying to swallow him and his ship whole.  The canon fire had only pissed it off.  Franky barely made it back to shore (was glad that Iceberg wasn't around to say I-told-you-so), but he didn't think twice about the ship that he saw.  Now that it's been on his mind, though, that was the same day the pirates came to town.

He hasn't seen the pirates himself, but he's heard plenty of rumors from people too scared to run the pirates off, but not too scared to talk about them.  That they ran everyone else out of the hotel where they're staying, they hit up a different bar every night and always cause a lot of damage and get into fights.  Franky's noticed over the week that the streets are a lot emptier, but it's just typical pirate stuff, other than having ransacked the town, and that's probably on the list of thing to do _after_ they get their new ship.

Franky hears the shipwrights coming back before he sees them.

Their voices run into one another, echoing across the yard, and Franky turns his head to look in the direction of the company building, the boards of the fence creaking under him, wobbling a bit.  He sees the glint of steel as one of the men comes around the corner, shouldering a broad saw.  The ship's all but finished, now.  And Franky realizes that he doesn't care to stick around and stare at the hull all day when he could be doing anything else.  He doesn't want to watch them launch it - it won't be as cool as when Tom tosses a ship one-handed - BOOM! - into the sea.  And he definitely doesn't want to stick around and wait for the pirates to turn up.

Before he's spotted, Franky drops down off the fence.  He starts heading home, goes the long way around before he doubles back at the last minute to take a look at the bridge that's out.  It's one of the smaller wood bridges, the only one that crossed the canal for several blocks in either direction.  Franky drums his knuckles on the corner of the railing as he steps up onto the lone board that's still in place on this side, kneels on the edge of the splintered wood and wiggles a post free, where it's barely hanging by a nail.  Thumping the post in the palm of his hand and surveying the damage, Franky wonders why nobody's bothered to fix it yet.

It's been a pain in the ass since Aqua Laguna - then again, not very many people are motivated to work around here.

If he's honest, Franky doesn't know what Tom sees in this town.

It's been a dump pretty much as long as he's been here.

Seeing that the street's empty except for a couple of dogs fighting and strolling garbage, Franky pushes the khakis down off his hips, steps out of them and wads them up in his shirt once he shrugs that off, too.  It's been hot as hell, anyway.  He tosses the bundle across the gaping bridge, braces himself for the burst of cold he knows is coming by sucking in a deep breath, and hops down into the canal.  Franky swims for a while just to make the dip worth it.  He pulls his goggles over his eyes and sees how long he can hold his breath; watches the sunlight filter down through the water, white spots in the murky blue, growing and glinting with the tug of the current.

There's a bunch of junk settled on the bottom of the canal and Franky hauls it up to the surface, pushes tires, boards, netting, up onto the street.  Not too many people through here can afford Yagaras, but it'd still be a shame if any of them got snagged or hurt.

Once the sun's just about gone past the roof of the house on the west side of the street, Franky measures out how far across the canal is, then climbs out on the other side.  The water level's risen enough so that it's not as difficult as it normally is, and Franky's still soaking wet when he steps back into his pants, water splashing on the cobblestone.  He puts the heel of one foot against the toes of the other as he steps into each pant leg to see how wide the bridge needs to be, his shirt draped over one shoulder.

-x-

It takes him about an hour to find and pull apart and old dingy on Scrap Island.  There's a spear through the bottom of the hull, but all of the wood is still usable; it isn't weak or rotted.  Franky ties the lumber together, rounds up his tools, takes a saw out of the warehouse, and goes back to the bridge.  (Kokoro tells him to come in and eat when she catches him sneaking off again, Iceberg makes a dumb comment when Franky says he's busy and not hungry, anyway, and Franky tells him to shove it, he can do whatever he wants.)  He's never built a bridge before - just ships, some furniture for ships, and a table, once, when they broke theirs sumo wrestling - but once he finishes the first, cooling off in the growing shade as the sun starts going down, his legs sticking out between the posts, he decides to fix the others tomorrow.

-x-

Franky is on his way home in the half-dark - the few spare boards leaned against his shoulder, saw and tools looped together in his free hand - when the sound of a bottle breaking up ahead makes him jump.  With it comes a bunch of laughter, feet scuffing drunkenly as about twelve men round the corner.  One of them tosses another empty bottle against the wall and every one of them laughs as the dark glass sprays the street, crunching under their boots.  Franky can tell only one or two of them are really drunk.  They take up the entire street and he hesitates, slows down a bit, glancing toward the canal and then back behind him, hefting the boards where they're resting in his palm.

Drunk punks don't scare him.

But there aren't too many _happy_ drunks around here, and he's got a nagging feeling in his gut.

A bottle hits the water this time, with a loud _plop_.  Franky grits his teeth, jumps forward, "Hey!"  A couple of them look up; one of them sags against his buddy and another of the dumb, drunk bastards just falls right over.  "The hell's the matter with you morons?  'S this look like a dump to you?"

One guy starts laughing, "Yeah, the hell's it look like to you, kid - ?"

"Son of a _BITCH_ ," another shouts, voice booming in the empty street, startling the rest of them.  He throws the bottle in his hand, the liquid arching out, and Franky flinches to the side.  It's a sloppy throw and it misses by a foot, at least, smashing on the wall behind him.  Beer splatters on the street.  The man points a finger at him, coming forward as the others start yelling in recognition, too, all at the same time.  "You're the little son of a bitch - the kid that got that Sea King after us - !"

"Shit!"

"Are you kidding me - "

"You little fucker!  You and that dumpy canon ship of yours almost got us all killed!"

Franky's willing to ignore the name calling - he hears worse from Iceberg, and he doesn't give a damn what these guys think of him - but he's proud as hell of that "dumpy canon ship".  The first guy that comes forward gets a 2x4 across the face, a broken jaw and a bloody mouth, that sends him staggering back.  But there are three others right behind him, and Franky's mad as hell, but they're madder than he is.  The beer burning through them probably helps fuel that fire.  It makes people mad and stupid and they don't feel too much other than that, which is probably why one guy takes a hit right to the shoulder blade and just keeps coming.

Franky's got a bloody nose of his own, his ribs aching from a kick, breath snagging, when he thinks he might stand a better chance of running than winning.

They're all bigger than he is, and hammered or not they're a lot stronger and he's outnumbered.

Damn, he hates that.

Franky checks one guy in the gut to make an opening.  He thinks he dislocates his shoulder in the process, but he knocks the guy and another pirate into the canal, drops the board still clutched and bloody in his hands.  He steps over one guy that's sprawled out in the street and bolts for the corner.

About the same time Franky kicks an empty beer bottle aside, jamming his toes, another breaks against the back of his head.  After that, Franky's sure he blacks out.  He remembers landing hard enough to push the air out of his lungs, smashing his face and scraping his hands and knees - seeing bright yellow spots in the black, flickering across his vision.  The next thing he knows, there's a hand in the collar of his shirt, yanking him up, and Franky's hands skim over the rough cobblestone, toes scuffing as he tries to get his footing, blood running hot across his face.  He's dazed from the blow and the sounds muddle together, but whoever it is doesn't knock the hell out of him.

Two hands find their way into the front of Franky's shirt and he thinks he might throw up right there when he's hauled up, over someone's shoulder, and the jarring movement doesn't stop.

It takes him a couple of blocks to recognize the ass he's staring at, the set of carving knives hanging in the belt.

To realize that it's quiet and the pirates are long gone.

"Hey," Franky draws out, tastes the blood pooling in his mouth and feels it running down his chin.  He bumps a fist against the small of Iceberg's back.  "Put me down."

Iceberg stops running.  Franky can hear how hard he's breathing, feel the rush in his chest.  He's suddenly aware of just how bad his ribs are aching when he can barely get his own breath - a sickening pressure building in his head and under his ribs that makes his stomach turn - but after resting for a second, instead of putting him down, Iceberg tightens the arm he has around Franky's back.  He bounces Franky so he lays more comfortably over his shoulder, but when Iceberg picks up the pace, he at least slows to a jog.

"No way," he says, "You're such a pain."

A groan hitches out of Franky when his ribs pang in protest; his stomach does this gross flipping thing that makes the back of his throat burn.

The taste of copper isn't helping at all.

"'M gonna hurl all down your back 'f you don'... put me down, Idiotberg."

"Go ahead," Iceberg says, voice raised and hurting Franky's ears, "I knew you'd get into trouble.  You're lucky they didn't killed you -!"

He doesn't sound so vindicated after Franky follows through with his weak threat, but he puts Franky down in an alley.  They're just a block from home.  Franky spits out another glob of mucus and blood, pressing his face into his hands as he sits on an empty apple crate, careful not to touch his throbbing nose.  It's probably lucky there was barely anything else in his stomach.  He's trying not to puke again, has a hard time getting deep breaths in without his chest aching or swallowing more blood.

Iceberg's taken off his shirt with a grimace, and he starts tearing it at the seams so the front comes away from the back clean.  Franky doesn't understand why, glancing up in between his fingers as the queasy feeling subsides, until Iceberg puts a hand in Franky's hair and tilts his head back out of his hands.  Iceberg presses his hands against both sides of Franky's nose, and before Franky can get out a shout of protest, hands jumping up to stop him, Iceberg sets his nose with a quick, downward pull of his hands.  There's a gross crunching sound that Franky hears, more from inside his ears than from outside, and he lets out a harsh breath.

Pain shoots through his nose, sharp and hot, prickling his sinuses, and he grabs Iceberg's wrists, thinks he's going to be sick again.

Blood trickles down the back of his throat and Franky chokes.

_"Dabbid, Iceberg, wha' da hell?"_

"Calm down," Iceberg mutters, lifting the shirt against his nose to staunch the bleeding.  He's not gentle about it.  His other hand's on Franky's shoulder, thumb digging into his collarbone.  "Take a deep breath - What the hell did you do to those pirates, anyway, Franky?"

"Wha's it batter?" Franky asks, stuffy and muffled by the shirt, his head throbbing, now.

His eyes are shut and he's squeezing Iceberg's wrists hard enough to hurt.  That doesn't stop Iceberg from pinching the bridge of his nose again, pulling downward to straighten it out.  Franky stomps a foot on the ground, trying to growl instead of whine, but _damnit_ that _really hurts..!_

Iceberg sighs, peeling back the shirt, "Oh my.  I suppose it doesn't.  Ms. Kokoro's the one that's going to kill you, now, you're a mess.  Are you alright?"

 _"Fine,"_ Franky mutters.

He doesn't mention the stinging in his ribs when he gasps a breath in through his open mouth, and Iceberg doesn't ask again.  He lets Franky have the shirt, lets him bury his face in his hands and leaves him alone until he's stopped bleeding.  Franky has to gun up the nerve to blow his nose - knows it going to hurt like hell - but he can breath better once he does, even if he thinks he might go blind from the headache.  He wads what's left of Iceberg's shirt up in his hands, surprised to notice he's shaking pretty bad.  He's going to be black and blue tomorrow, he can already feel it - like his skin's wrapped too tight, his whole body throbbing at every little movement.

Iceberg's crouching beside the crate, elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his knuckles and not saying anything.  His head is cocked like he's listening, and Franky lifts his head a little, trying to do the same, but he can't really hear anything other than a dull thumping in his ears.

"Where the hell'd you come from, anyway?" Franky asks.

"Ms. Kokoro was worried when you didn't come back for supper," Iceberg says, "So I went looking for you."

"How'd you get away from those pirates...?"

"I've lived here longer than you have, moron.  I know my way around."  He gets to his feet, swats the outside of Franky's knee with his hand as he does and makes a gesture.  "Come on, let's get home.  We should probably wait until those pirates leave town... but if you want, I can help you fix the rest of those bridges."  Franky feels that tingling in his sinuses again, presses his trembling mouth closed and gingerly pushes a hand back through his hair.  Iceberg asks, "That's what you were doing with all that lumber, isn't it?"

He'll be damned if he admits it.  Even if it was an accident, Franky doesn't feel bad for getting those pirates shipwrecked - jerkwads probably deserved it, even if the ship didn't.  But he's seen plenty of times what pirates will do to a town.  They'll take whatever they want and burn it all to the ground (they'll leave their kid behind if he's too much trouble).

Franky makes a noise that hurts his nose, ducks his head and rubs his eyes, "Yeah - fine, whatever."

"Oh my.  I only offered to help, Franky, you don't have to cry about it - "

_"I'm not cryin', yer cryin'... !"_

Iceberg at least doesn't make fun of him for not crying as the two of them slowly make their way home.

 


	6. they dwell on ships

"What the hell's that?"

Iceberg starts at Franky's loud question, would lurch forward up off the lumber he's reclining against if Franky didn't crowd against the back of his head, open shirt falling around his ears, arm weighing down Iceberg's shoulder.  Franky reaches around to peck at a page in the open book.  The illustration under his finger is of a small sailor in a raincoat, wielding a caulking hammer.  Shifting his shoulders, glances sideways at Franky's profile as he leans into view, Iceberg drops his gaze to scan the text below his finger.

"Klabautermann."

"Klada-what-now?"

"It's a  _ Klabautermann _ \- a ship's spirit."

"A ship's spirit?"

"That's what it says," Iceberg says, somewhat annoyed, "Are you going to repeat everything I tell you?"

"I dunno," Franky drones, with the same attitude, "You gotta be sucha smartass about it?"

He grabs the top of the book, crumples the pages in the process, and lifts it out of Iceberg's hands, turns and slides down to sit on the other side of the log.  Iceberg twists after him, "Flaky!"  He grabs the strap of Franky's goggles because it's the only thing he can reach, snapping it against the back of his head.  Franky jerks his shoulders up with a yelp that's half-laugh, ducking forward and falling on his side.  He holds the book up and out of Iceberg's reach when he comes over the top of the log to take it back.

Iceberg falls on him, and Franky knees him in the stomach.

It's as he's pulling on Franky's elbow, reaching for the book, that Iceberg realizes Franky's shading his eyes from the glare of the sun, squinting up at the page.

"Klabautermann, huh," he mutters.  He's got a thumb pressed into the paper, and Iceberg tilts his head into the square of shade as Franky reads aloud, "Says -  _ 'stories originated near Baltic in the North Blue' _ \- blahblahblah... Here we go."  He raises his other hand to lay a finger under the line. " _ 'His image is of a small sailor in yellow with a tobacco pipe and a woolen sailor's cap.  He is a merry and diligent creature, with an expert understanding of most watercraft, and an unsuppressable musical talent.' _  Ha!  Sounds like me and this thing would get along great!"

Iceberg rolls his eyes, reaches to snatch the book back.

"It isn't real," he says.

Franky rolls underneath him, puts his feet on Iceberg's stomach and shoves him off, sending him toppling back over the log.  Iceberg lands heavily on his shoulder, but the fall doesn't hurt him.  He's pushing himself up as Franky is starting down the opposite side of the stack of lumber, where he climbed up before, hand between the pages of the book to keep his place.

"Let's go see if Tom's ever heard of one of these!"

"Franky!  Don't bother Mr. Tom with that!"

But when Franky presents the open page to Tom, who is elbow deep in the steam engine making adjustments, Tom wipes the oil from his hands and takes a look.  There's sweat beading on his forehead, dark still smudged into the webbing between his fingers, but he grips the bottom of the book all the same, tipping it to look at the illustration under Franky's finger.  Hanging close to Franky's shoulder, Iceberg watches Tom's eyes scan the page.

"A Klabautermann?" the fishman asks, "Why, of course I have!  Any shipwright worth his salt has heard the tale at least once in his life."  Surprised, Iceberg returns his gaze to the book as Franky turns it around in his hands, scans the article again over Franky's shoulder.  Franky elbows him in the ribs and flashes a grin -  _ told you so, idiotberg _ \- and Iceberg smacks him in the neck with the flat of his hand.  Laughing, Tom continues,  "They dwell on ships that are well looked after.  They've been said to warn sailors when a ship's in danger.  Sometimes they help in bigger ways, but I can't say I've ever seen one, myself.  Imagine, though, building a ship that someone cared so much for, it came to life."

The idea is mystifying.

But Tom's enthusiasm quickly drains away.

"I'm not surprised you boys had to learn something like that from a book," Tom says, with a heaviness that makes Iceberg feel quiet and small, looking up.  Franky shifts his bare feet and pulls the book in against his chest, fingers drumming the cover as he stares hard at the pages.  Tom stuffs the oily rag into his back pocket, picks up his wrench and puts his hands back in the engine.

"Most men these days -"  He shakes his head.  " - they don't care about their ships."


	7. half-full

Franky isn't very observant when he's running five degrees hotter than normal.

He doesn't remember much about  _ being _ sick, even though the  _ getting _ sick part kinda plays over in his head, foggy and with big chunks of time missing, spots blurring together.  Kokoro telling him,  _ "For goodness' sake, put some clothes on before you catch your death out here, Franky...!" _  Iceberg calling him a  _ moron _ and knocking him in the head.  Sneezing for the first time as the rain rushes in his ears, snot running down his face; how hard it was to breath being all chugged up, his muscles gross and wobbly, trying to keep up with Iceberg and Tom.  Dropping a valve pipe and busting his toes, sliding on the slick concrete.  He remembers being warm and soft, too hot, trying to cover up the nasty taste of cough syrup with Kokoro's mushroom soup.

The next thing Franky really knows, he's lifting his head out of his pillow, groaning.  Sweat sticks his hair up, cold on his arms and the back of his neck.  The back of the pillow's cool against his face when he flips it and hugs it in his arms.  His eyes are heavy and sore, so Franky sinks right back down.  It takes him a while to get his eyes open, get his bearings.  The room is dark, but he can make everything out just fine, though he doesn't really look around.  He stares across the floor at the base of the book shelves and the crate in the corner; guesses from the slight, steady wheezing noise behind him that Tom is asleep on his back instead of on his side again.

Franky's whole body aches.  He still has that gross wet feeling in the back of his throat, but he's cold now that the fever's broke.  He feels rested, at least - less like he's been beaten with a stick and more like normal - and Franky doesn't really notice he's fallen asleep until he jolts awake again.  On the pallet next to him, Iceberg moves.  He shoves off the blanket like it weighs a ton, leans heavily on one of his hands when he finally manages to sit up.

Franky sees him drop his face into his palm, hears the harsh sound of his breathing, and lifts his head a little.

"'S matter?" Franky mumbles.

His throat's wrecked from coughing, and the words taste like sand on his tongue.

"You're sick because you're a moron," he hears Iceberg mutter, his voice weak and stuffy-sounding, "How the hell did I get sick, too...?"

"Cause you're an idiot, Idiotberg."  Iceberg swats Franky in the side.  Franky puffs a laugh into his pillow, thinks about kicking back, but doesn't bother.  His throat's dry and it's hard to swallow, and he's not moving if he doesn't have to.  He hears Iceberg moving, though, and peels his eyes open; he's just drawn his knees up, laying against them with his hands cupping his forehead.  Franky drags his arm out from under the pillow.  It doesn't get far, palm flat against the floorboards.  "Floor's nice 'n cold 'f you're burnin' up."

Iceberg snorts and that starts him coughing wetly, inhales wheezing.

Once the fit subsides, Iceberg groans into his palm, "How're we gonna work tomorrow...?"

Franky hums into the pillow, his eyes closed again.

He knows he's been sick - in-bed-sick, anyway - a full day.  Hell, maybe two, he isn't sure what night this is.  This thing kicked his ass and then took his name.  Makes him wonder how long Iceberg's been fighting it off, just so he could keep helping Tom with the Sea Train, and Franky remembers, hazily, something Tom has told them before, pending broken bones and severe weather.  Franky turns his face out of the pillow so Iceberg will hear him mumble,  _ "The work'll still be there in the mornin'." _

Iceberg makes another noise, and a little bit later Franky hears the blankets rustling, the floor creaking softly in the dark as Iceberg gets up and leaves.  Franky doesn't hear him come back, is drooling on the pillow when he feels a warm hand pick his up off the floor and turn it over, something cool pressing into his palm.  He jerks his head up with a grunt, fingers closing around the glass and pulling it in against the pillow.  It's only half-full and the water sloshes around, a drop beading down the outside and pooling in the dip below his thumb.  Iceberg is pulling his blankets up, laying back down and curling an arm over the pillow resting on his chest.

"You need to stay hydrated, Franky," Iceberg murmurs, raising a hand to lay across his eyes, like it's somehow too bright in here.

Franky remembers his head was killing him by the time he finally gave up and crawled into bed.  He stares at the water, doesn't realize how thirsty he had been until he sits up enough to take a drink and empties the glass.  His throat doesn't scratch so much when he breathes, and Franky lets out a deep sigh, face buried in the pillow again, tipping the glass a little so the bottom of it rolls against the floor.  He switches the hand that it's in and drags the other back enough to swat Iceberg in the shoulder, suddenly thinking of something.

"You're stupid," he mutters.

"Give me that glass - "

"No, I mean - " Franky laughs, cracking a grin and glad the pillow mostly hides it.  "You're body must not know what it's name is.  Icebergs're supposed to be cold, right?"

The pillow hits him across the back, a foot sliding his way underneath the blankets in what is obviously supposed to be a kick, but falls short.  Franky laughs, raises a hand to block it the second time the pillow comes lazily down on the back of his head, but he's sure he sees a grin on Iceberg's face before he turns over, muttering,  _ "Moron." _


	8. the sound thunderous

"Hey, Iceberg.  There's a ship headed this way."

Iceberg glances first at Franky, who's sitting in the boat alongside the tracks, hands resting on the crank of the mechanism Tom has fitted to it to keep the fish away.  He hasn't quite perfected it yet.  They're in the middle of testing its strength and range, now, and they're miles out from Water 7, where the sea is deep and there's very little outside interference.  Usually, at least.  When Iceberg slides his gaze across the horizon, he sees that Franky is right.  There's a ship coming into view to the north - not quite the size of a galleon, but decently large - but he doesn't see a jolly roger on the flag or sail, so he doesn't see any need to worry.

"It's probably a passenger ship going to Pucci," he says, dropping his eyes to the railway again as he walks it, "You're supposed to be watching the clock, Flaky."

Franky shoots him a glare that Iceberg only sees out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm watchin' it!  Don't think you can boss me around just cuz Mr. Tom's not here!"

But the second he glances down at the stopwatch in his hand, Iceberg hears him hurriedly turning the crank.  They're supposed to turn it for 30 seconds every two minutes.  Iceberg crouches on one of the planks of the railway, the sea cool and washing over his legs as the rails bob on the waves, and puts an ear in the water to listen.  It carries the gentle groan of the crank turning, the repetitive  _ clip-clapping _ as two flat pieces of iron turn around a gear and hit against one another, but Iceberg doesn't hear anything particularly off-putting about the sounds.

It would certainly become annoying after a while - but he's not a fish, or a fishman, so perhaps there's something in it that he can't hear at all.  Or perhaps it's just not right.  Sighing, Iceberg sits back on his haunches, elbows resting on his knees, the water buoying him so he doesn't fall over, though he only has his heels on the edge of the plank.  They won't know until Tom comes up, and he glances back toward the boat.

Franky has stopped turning the crank and he's staring off at the ship, brow knotted.  He's fidgeting with the stopwatch, pushing it with his thumb so it turns in his palm.

"That don't look like a passenger ship to me."

The statement seems random, but Iceberg sees his point.  The wind is as steady as ever on the open sea and the ship has come much closer in the short span of time.  But Pucci is further along the tracks, and the ship's heading is clearly pointed toward them instead of to the west, going against whatever pose they might have.  No one has any business with them all the way out here - not even pirates, since there's clearly nothing to pillage.  Of course, it's likely they're the victims of a pirate raid themselves and they're looking for help, but there's no obvious signs of damage to the ship, the sails, or even the few people Iceberg can see moving about the deck, and the sight of such a large ship approaching...

Slowly, Iceberg stands, scanning the ship again, but any identifier he can see isn't one he recognizes.

Franky turns the crank again, but as soon as the thirty seconds are up, he's looking at the ship again, glancing at Iceberg.

"Think they're lost?"

Iceberg doesn't answer, coming back along the tracks to stand by the boat, where it's tethered to one of the iron cables running over the planks of the railway.  He crouches again, unties the knot and reties a new one that they can simply yank free if they have to.  He straightens up and sees Franky watching him carefully.  They've got a saw in the boat - several other tools and a few boards to make repairs to the rails - but Franky, for once in his life, is dressed more than Iceberg is.

He's wearing an open floral-print shirt, whereas Iceberg stripped down to his swimming trunks to get in the water.  Even his tool belt is lying in the bottom of the boat, and Iceberg suddenly feels naked without it.  Several voices make their way across the open air as one man steps up onto the gunwale at the head of the ship, holding onto the rigging and deliberately raising his voice, "Looks like we got ourselves a couple of runaways here, Boss."  There's a dark delight in his tone that sits badly in Iceberg's chest.

He looks at the marker on their flag again, the direction they came from.

The ship is near enough, now, that they can clearly see the man leering at them - broad and dark, a saber at his belt - and the handful of men that come to stand around him.  One of them's measuring out a length of rope.  The half-covered cages on the deck behind them are a disconcerting sight.

Iceberg makes a low noise to get Franky's attention; Franky doesn't look at him, but he straightens his back a bit, raises his chin.

"Oh my," Iceberg says, keeping his voice down so it doesn't carry, "They're human traffickers from the Archipelago."

He sees Franky's profile bunch in confusion.

"They're what, now?"

" _ Slave traders. _  They sell people on the black market."

"No point in askin' how they get ahold of those people, I guess," Franky mutters, glancing down at the stopwatch.

He puts a hand on the crank to turn it again, but Iceberg says, "Don't," and Franky shoots him a quick glance.  Reluctantly, he props his hand on his knee, looking back toward the ship as another man comes into view from one of the upper decks.  He's dressed better than the other men are, though he leers just like the rest once he gets a look at them.

"Well, well," he says, evidently smug with his find, "What are the chances, finding two pretty boys out here all on their own.  Must be from Water 7 - people have been abandoning that place left and right lately."  He bangs a hand on the railing, and there's a chorus of laughs and cheers as he turns away.  "Bring ‘em aboard, boys."

Only part of that seems to stick with Franky.

He makes a face, blurts out,  _ "Pretty?" _

Iceberg isn't sure he understands the implication, but before he can open his mouth, he sees exactly where the ship is as it draws level with them - as it runs aground on the railway hidden just beneath the waves.  True to it's form, the railway gives instead of breaking apart, but as it goes under, dragging along the keel of the ship, Iceberg goes down along with it.  The rail gets sucked right out from under his feet and he sinks sharply, caught in the pull, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.  He sucks in a breath and only gets water.  For an instant he forgets to kick his feet.  He swallows hard, chokes, then breaks the surface, heaving and coughing salt water out of his lungs.

He hears Franky shout his name, sees him standing up in the boat.

The knot it was tethered with has come loose and it's drifted a bit; rather than try and make it, Iceberg treads water where he is, wheezes, "I'm fine."  Franky rounds on the ship.  Their lookout must not have noticed the track, because the crew is in an uproar, confused and pounding across the deck as the ship comes to a dead stop in the water.  The rails didn't give enough, and Iceberg's worried they  _ will  _ break under the strain.

Franky is rightly furious.

"Hey, look here, you dumb bastards!" Franky shouts at the men running back and forth, leaning over the side of the ship and pulling at the sails.  They still haven't figured it out.  Only one of them stops to even acknowledge him - the boss, Iceberg realizes.  "We ain't runaways, we're shipwrights!  And you're wreckin' our railway!"

_ "Railway!?" _

"Are you deaf  _ and  _ ugly?"  Iceberg inwardly sighs, slips underwater and makes for the boat as Franky barks, "That's what I said, jackass, now get the hell off it before you break it!  You want me to come up there and kick your ass?"

The man is red-faced and screaming for a pistol when Iceberg grabs the side of the boat and pulls himself halfway up out of the water.  Franky starts as the boat rocks and glances back at him, ignoring the trafficker entirely, and Iceberg beckons with his hand, "Franky, hand me my tool belt - and your goggles."

"What the hell for?" but he pulls the goggles off, anyway.

"I'm going to take the clicker off the bottom of the boat and we're going to get out of here while they're still hung up on the tracks."

He has his hand held out for his belt, but Franky jerks it back at the last second, raising his voice,  _ "What? _  Why don't we just kick their ass?"

_ "Moron," _ Iceberg says under his breath, "We don't have an advantage in the water, and if we board their ship they'll just capture us.  You want to be a slave?  Mr. Tom should be heading back by now - he'll know something is wrong because we didn't sound off - but we should put some distance between ourselves and these guys.  Give me the belt!"

Franky passes him the belt and the goggles, looking reluctant.

"What if they just fire a cannon at us, huh?"

"They won't - there's no profit in killing us."

Franky's hesitation vanishes entirely at the gunshot, the bullet that splinters the side of the boat.  It's only a warning shot - Franky yelps, jerking backwards and stumbling to the other side of the boat, and Iceberg sucks in a deep breath, yanking the goggles down over his eyes as he goes under.  It's an easy task getting the clicker loose from the attachment on the bottom of the boat, just a few twists of the screwdriver.  Iceberg thinks it shouldn't be too hard to swim with, but it's the only thing they can't just leave.

The boat, saws, and lumber can be replaced.

Tom doesn't have another one of these and it's senseless to make another from scratch if this one is the one that finally works.

Muffled slightly under the water, he hears Franky's voice, loud and boisterous - what he can only assume is the trafficker's, pitched higher with rage - and then another gunshot just as his lungs are starting to ache and the last bolt comes free, sinking slowly down into the blue.  Iceberg goes up for a breath,  _ "Franky!  Let's go!" _ and goes right back under again, kicking away from the boat, deeper into the water and toward the tracks.

The resounding splash behind him hardly calms his nerves.  It isn't until Franky quickly outpaces him that Iceberg realizes how hard his heart had been beating, but Franky isn't trailing blood.  That, thankfully, means that man is as incompetent with a pistol as his lookouts are.

-x-

When the tracks finally level out again near the surface, Iceberg lifts Tom's clicker up onto it to give his arms a rest.  It's harder to swim with than he anticipated, carrying it and his belt, and his arms and legs are burning with the effort.  He almost can't even get it up onto the tracks, though they're mostly submerged.  Franky comes up across from him, drapes an arm over the cable between the planks and wipes the water from his eyes, pushing his hair out of his face as he looks back the way they came.

They can still see the trafficker's ship, but they're well out of a pistol's range.

They both heard a loud shudder in the water just before they came up for air - Iceberg has his suspicions, and Franky confirms it when he climbs up onto the tracks, both hands shielding his eyes from the sun's glare on the water.  Water runs off him, droplets plinking like rain around his ankles.

"Looks like they sunk the boat," Franky says, dropping his hands.

He stoops to pick up the clicker, metal pieces clacking loosely together, and offers the other hand to Iceberg, helps pull him up out of the water and then takes his tool belt from him, as well, once they're standing together on the tracks.  Iceberg doesn't protest, and takes the opportunity to catch his breath and rest his arms, watching the activity around the trafficker's ship.  They've got people in the water, now, and if they manage to get off the tracks, they'll catch them in no time.

It's a good two hours walking back to Water 7 along the tracks, but they can't just leave without letting Tom know.

Iceberg and Franky both flinch when cannon fire splits the air again, but the ball hits the water near the ship - there's no way it was aimed at them.  Even at this distance, the arch of the water is huge, the sound thunderous.  It's several seconds before the wave rocks the tracks where they're standing, pushing them up over the high swell and sinking them gently back down, and in that time they hear the unmistakable hallmarks of wood splintering.

_ "Those bastards!" _ Franky growls, "They must've hit the track - !!"

"No, that's not it - "

The side of that huge ship breaks wide open - an egg cracking on an iron skillet - and Iceberg can hear the men yelling, the booming echo of gunshots.  A figure emerges from the water, small at this distance, but unmistakable, and Iceberg thinks his heart stops in his chest.

His fingers dig into Franky's arm, where he grabbed on to keep his balance.

_ "MR. TOM!" _

Franky seems to have come to the same realization, because they both take off back along the tracks, waving their arms above their head, shaking the clicker so the iron plates bang together, shouting to get his attention.

_ "Mr. Tom!  We're over here!" _

_ "Hey!!  Mr. Tom!!" _

They see the ship slide in the water, a quick, backwards movement not at all natural for a ship, and it's the only warning they get.  The tracks lurch suddenly under their feet, sweep off toward the right.  Franky's foot slips between two of the planks and he falls hard on the rails when they come up to meet him; Iceberg goes sideways into the sea.  His head is pounding when he comes up, choking for the second time, his hair in his face and salt stinging his eyes and throat.

Iceberg twists around in the water.

"Franky!"

He's sprawled on the tracks, one leg hooked over the cable on the side of the track and the other in the water between two of the planks.

"‘M fine," Franky gurgles, but he pulls an arm underneath him, face beat red as he shifts on the plank that's digging into his chest.  It's barely audible, but Iceberg hears him whine, "Think I destroyed my junk though -  _ jeez  _ -"

He winces with sympathy, surprised to see, despite that, that Franky still has ahold of the clicker and his tool belt.  Iceberg swims back to the tracks and takes both of them from Franky so he can get up; doesn't miss the way Franky winces putting weight on his left leg after he pulls it out of the water or the way his legs shake.  It looks like he busted his knee or twisted it on the way down, as well, and Franky wobbles a little, keeps a hand between his legs as he doubles over to breathe, but he stands just fine on his own, considering.

He takes the clicker back with his free hand while Iceberg climbs up again.

The trafficker's ship is taking on water at an alarming rate - already a third of the way gone, it's apparent there's no saving it.

Iceberg doesn't see Tom among the men scrambling for lifeboats, wailing in confusion, and he turns his eyes to the sea, scanning the waves as they begin to even out.  Tom comes up behind them near the tracks just a few seconds later, startling him and Franky both as he breaks the surface.  When he wheezes and coughs and has trouble pulling himself up onto the railway, Iceberg can only imagine the worst.

"Mr. Tom!  Are you alright?!"

"Hey, those bastards didn't get you did they?  They're terrible shots!"

He and Franky rush back together, each grabbing an arm and heaving the large fishman up out of the water, bowing the tracks under his weight.  But when Tom turns over to sit on the side of the tracks he's doubled over with gut-twisting, lung-squeezing  _ laughter _ , nothing but gentle  _ ta-haha _ s escaping as he tries to catch his breath.  All Iceberg can do is release the breath he hadn't realized he was holding onto, relief settling in where panic had been.  He pushes a hand back through his hair.

Franky falls directly into outrage, "What the hell's so funny?!"

Tom is laughing so hard he can barely speak.

They get him up and on their way back before he finally quiets down, the trafficker's ship and the commotion fading away behind them.  Around Tom, Iceberg sees Franky glancing back, but he doesn't, and neither of them say anything more until Tom does.  The fishman digs his knuckles into the corner of his eye, with deep breaths and hearty sighs.

"Saw the boat get blown apart on my way up," he finally says, "Thought for sure you'd been killed, but - BOOM! - here you are!   _ Ta-ha...!  Ha...!  Haa! _  Safe and sound~"

He reaches up, claps Iceberg and Franky both across the shoulders.  The webbing between his thumb and forefinger presses into the backs of their necks when he squeezes, giving them both a playful shake that nearly knocks them off their feet and back into the sea.  When he finally lets go, he passes Franky his goggles and Iceberg his bandana, and when Franky hefts the clicker up for Tom to take, Iceberg wrings the water out of his bandana and asks him how it sounded.

Tom only laughs again, voice booming from his chest.

There isn't a fish around for miles.


	9. like he's come away the victor

"You boys come over here," Kokoro says abruptly one evening, standing in the kitchen doorway and brandishing a knife.

Franky's already sprawled across their three pallets, under a pillow, but he lunges upright when he realizes what Kokoro wants, kicking blankets aside with a vigor that suggests he's been waiting on this moment for a while, now.  Tom laughs and claps the table top.  At his desk in the middle of the row, Iceberg glances up from the book he's reading, eyes on the notches in the wood of the doorframe as Franky goes obediently to stand in it, his heels and back pressed flat against them.

"I don't think there's much point in me doing it, too, Ms. Kokoro," Iceberg says, sitting back in his chair and laying an arm across the top of it, "Franky's finally starting to shoot up, but I can't have gotten that much taller, even in a year."

"Oh, you'd be surprised how much a young man in his twenties will grow," Kokoro says with a broad, knowing smile, raising a hand to flatten Franky's hair down before digging the knife into the kitchen-side of the door frame.  The fact that she has to reach  _ up _ to do it, now, doesn't go unnoticed by anyone.  Franky fights a grin, trying to keep his feet still and his back straight, fists bobbing against his legs.  "There we are!"

Franky steps away from the frame and turns to look, feeling the new notch with a bandaged finger.  His finger scoots across the frame, down about an inch or two, and Franky draws out a loud,  _ "Ha!" _ like he's come away the victor.  He's laughing when he turns on Iceberg, grinning ear to ear, tapping a mark that's five years old.

"Check this out, ice for brains!  You were such a shorty at seventeen!"

Of all things, Iceberg isn't expecting that.  He gets quickly to his feet, shoving the chair back. ( _ "Like that matters, now!  You're always going to be the short one!"  "As if!  I got a late start, sure, but look at this progress!") _  At the table, Tom booms with laughter.  Iceberg backs up against the frame and let's Kokoro put another notch in on his side of the door.  It's only a few centimeters, but he has indeed grown.

"Oh my," Iceberg points at it, looking triumphantly at Franky, "See that?  It's the top one that counts, Flaky."

He's still a solid four inches above Franky and it's much more prominent etched into the wood right in front of them.  Franky grinds his teeth, looking between the marks - the glaring height difference - and Iceberg.

"No way!  It don't look like  _ that much! _ "

"The notches don't lie!"

"Alright, boys," Kokoro says, "You don't have to fight about every little thing -"

_ "Who's little?" _

" - you're both still growing, neither one of you are little any more - Tom if you keep on laughing like that they'll just keep arguing!"

" _ Ta-ha...!  Ha...!  Ha! _  Kokoro's right!" Tom says to silence them.  They stop wrestling in the doorway, Iceberg with Franky's head under his arm, squeezing tight; Franky trying to take Iceberg's feet out from under him.  "You're both fine, strong young men!  You'll keep growing with a BOOM! until you're as big as I am!"

Franky snorts, laughing, now, as well, trying to pull his head free, "Mr. Tom I hope you don't mean as big around as you are -  _ ack!" _

Iceberg squeezes Franky's neck in the crook of his arm, "Moron, don't talk to Mr. Tom like that!  He just gave the two of us a compliment and you're calling him fat!" and Franky paws at his wrist and elbow, kicking at the back of his leg.  Kokoro sighs and goes to put the knife away before one of them hurts themselves, and Tom carries right on laughing with tears in his eyes.


	10. his tongue between his teeth

"The steam's pushing through too fast," Tom is saying, voice bouncing around the vast warehouse.  The words sound like they're coming from somewhere far behind or above Franky, where he's sitting on the cowcatcher, but he knows Tom's just around the other side of the engine.

There are a few metallic bangs - a wrench being set down, Iceberg hitting the steel toe of his boot against the Rocketman's heavy iron plating.

"If the firebox were longer," he says, "maybe the throttle would work better.  That valve's supposed to control the amount of steam leaving the boiler, but it just isn't doing it.  The steam is bursting out too quickly for it to catch."  Franky hooks a foot around one of the rails, tongue between his teeth as he swipes the brush, finishing the upward arch in one smooth line.  He drops his hand to swirl the brush in the bucket of white paint he's holding in his free hand.  "The tubes would be longer, as well - that may help regulate the temperature."

He hears Tom hum in thought, probably pulling at his beard, "About how much longer do you think, Iceberg?"

"Oh my."  Iceberg hesitates and Franky laughs under his breath, filling in a triangle and mouthing along, "Another foot, at least."

He and Iceberg had talked about it for over an hour the other day, while they were taking turns shoveling coal into the firebox, trying to build up the steam for another run.  Iceberg had mentioned extending the engine as a passing thought, but it made a hell of a lot of sense, and Franky had told him as much.  They bounced several ideas back and forth - Iceberg jabbing at the coal with his shovel and Franky leaning against his - but when telling Tom about it came up, Iceberg had shaken his head.  Some crap about not wanting to interfere with Tom's original designs.  It's taken Franky this long, and another failed attempt, to get him to open his stupid mouth about it.

Franky rocks forward on the cowcatcher, eager to hear what Tom thinks of the idea.

" _ Ta-haha! _  I was thinking about the same!"

Franky grins, pecking the brush against the side of the paint can.

"Hey, Mr. Tom!" he calls, like he hasn't been listening, his voice sharp and hollow-sounding against the metal right in front of him.  He dips in the brush, filling in another white triangle and moving on down the line until a jagged grin begins to appear.  "What color are you gonna paint the Sea Train, once it's finished?"

He hears Tom laughing again, but the footsteps on the concrete belong to Iceberg and Franky looks over at him when he ducks to look at the underside of the front of the smokebox.  Iceberg has a hand on the engine, but he doesn't touch the wet paint.

"Franky, what's with this weird face?"

"It's a runaway train!" Franky says, "I thought it should have a dangerous look to it.  Like, uh - " He grins, broad but almost apologetic, raising his shoulders.  "Like Ms. Kokoro when she's pissed off, right?  Nothin's scarier than that, I mean - "

He trails off, a little uncertain when Iceberg lifts a gloved hand to cover his mouth, staring at the face of engine.  Tom has come around and stepped back to take a better look at it, but when he hears what Franky says he stops, as well - and then he starts laughing, voice booming back at them.  Franky's grin returns full-force.  When he looks at Iceberg, who's looking at Tom out of the corner of his eye, Franky sees his cheeks pushing up and narrowing his eyes, that he's hiding a grin behind his hand.  Tom laughs until he's wheezing for breath, until he has to bend forward with a hand on his knee, the other dipping into his side to press against the stitch in his ribs.

Eventually he has to sit.

By then the commotion has attracted Kokoro herself, and when she comes out onto the balcony from the second floor, leaning against the rail, Franky blanches a bit.  Iceberg covers his mouth again, turning to look at her, but Tom is still laughing harder than ever.

Kokoro looks amused, exasperated.

"My goodness, Tom, what  _ is _ it?  I can hear you from upstairs!"  Tom can't quite get the words out.  He sucks in a breath, flat on his back and huffing out another long laugh.  Kokoro spots the the sharp smile on the front of the smokebox, and Franky pulls his lips between his teeth, staring wide-eyed at the back of Iceberg's head.  Paint splashes across his thigh, dripping from the brush in his hand.  Kokoro tilts her head, an eyebrow cocked, and asks, "Franky, what have you done to that train?"

Franky swallows hard, opens his mouth.

Iceberg beats him to it, lifting his hand to say, "He's drawn a shark, Ms. Kokoro."

Tom laughs so hard he starts to cry, and Kokoro makes a face at him.

"Honestly," she says, going back inside, "One of you boys get him a glass of water, before he chokes himself."

Franky trips over himself climbing over the cowcatcher, hitting the bottom of the bucket on the rail, spilling the paint across the concrete and his feet and legs.  Iceberg hauls Tom upright, lifting the fishman's back off the floor, first, and then pushing with his shoulder until Tom can lean forward and keep himself up, for the most part.  Franky trails white foot prints into the apartment and out again, a glass of water in his hands when he returns.

"Green - " Tom wheezes and laughs, his face a burnt orange color that Franky has never seen before as he accepts the water and gets his breath.  He pauses after a short drink to laugh again, rubbing his vast neck, "We'll probably paint it green, boys."


	11. slowly changing gears

It's the fourth time in just a few short weeks.  Iceberg stands in the boat, arms out to keep his balance, the rain a noisy patter on the choppy waves.  His heart is in his throat watching the ocean churn and bubble, hiss and steam, as the Rocketman goes under again with a great choked noise that's louder than thunder.  The railway is ruined, pieces of board and twisted iron clattering against the side of the boat.  Whatever's still intact has gone under with Rocketman, and Tom along with it.

_ It's still too heavy, _ Iceberg thinks, chewing his lip.  He can see the track several yards away where it bows too far under the water to be seen.  He wonders if Tom can get it up this time and has the sinking feeling that he can't.  It's several minutes before Tom or Yokozuna either one come up, and the frog comes first with a mighty splash just off the rails, heaving for breath as he climbs up into the rain and out of the dark, freezing water.

Tom breaks the surface near the boat, as silent as the sea.

"It's no good, Iceberg," he says lifting a webbed hand to cover his head.  He's got a right to look more at a loss than he does. "It's not coming up this way."

"Oh my."  Iceberg's shoulders sag as he scans the waves, "It's off the track?"

"By a few yards," Tom says, turning and pointing in the water where Iceberg can't see, but he probably can, "Gone off to the right there.  On it's side.  Part of the track's twisted up in the back paddles and it'll take some time to get it loose and back upright."

"I could go back for a crane from the shipyard - "

But Tom shakes his head.

"No, we're too far out for a crane," he says, looking back along the tracks.  Iceberg knows Tom can't see it over the cresting waves, but Water 7 is just a broad line on the horizon from here, barely visible through the haze of rain.  Iceberg's heart sinks even further.  The rain sounds too loud.  "And we don't have a ship big enough to salvage.  It's just too heavy.  Yokozuna and I will take her home along the bottom - that'll be the easiest way."

"What can I do, Mr. Tom?"

" _ Ta-haha! _  Not a thing."  It's just an honest fact, and any despair Tom has seems to vanish as he pats the underside of the boat, gives it a firm push toward Water 7.  Iceberg grabs onto the side with both hands so he doesn't fall face-first into the water.  He doesn't like this feeling, but Tom is grinning.  "You go on home before it gets any worse out here.  Help Franky finish up that line of track, we'll need it to repair this first thing tomorrow."

"Oh my... alright."

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Alright."

-x-

_ "‘See you in the morning?' _  What's, he just gonna spend the night out there?"

Franky casts a skeptical look towards the dark warehouse windows that are shuddering against the wind and rain.  The storm has picked up a lot since Iceberg came in by himself and delivered the news, and they've been listening to the storm howl while they assemble the long line of track that's laid out in the dry dock.  A lot of the wooden boards are already attached to the woven iron cables Tom made - fitted down over threaded pegs in the cable - and all they have to do is screw on the caps to hold the two of them together.  Once they finish this line, they'll roll in into a coil, pull it to the other end of the dock, and lay another line of boards down.

It's boring, repetitive work, but it's gotta be done.

Franky shoots Iceberg a look, but Iceberg is grim-faced, so focused on twisting the caps down on his side of the rail that he doesn't even look up when Franky asks.

It's a dumb question, anyway.

But Franky doesn't like being ignored.

"Hey," he says, a bit louder than before.  The word surprises him, bouncing around more in the confined space than he thought it would.  Iceberg cuts his eyes up, a look as cold as his name is, and Franky glares right back, shifting forward - he's more than ready to blow off some steam.  "The hell's that mean ass look for, huh?"

Color him surprised.  Iceberg doesn't say anything at all, drops his gaze and twists a cap in hard enough to dig it into the wood.  He shuffles further down the track, thumbs another couple of pegs into the holes of another board, and tightens them in.  Iceberg's too pissed off to even fight with him - that sure is a first.  Put off, Franky slowly changes gear, tapping the flathead screwdriver against the plank by his knee and watching Iceberg work his way down the line of track.

Iceberg doesn't snap at Franky to pick up the pace or get back to work.

When he does look up it's toward the warehouse door, then right back down again.

_ You're gonna give yourself a headache frownin' like that, _ Franky starts to say, smacking the handle of the screwdriver into the palm of his hand, but he bites his tongue.   _ It's not our fault it keeps sinkin' like that, y'know.  We'll just have to figure out a way to make it lighter. _

That'll all just piss him off more.

So he asks, instead, "Y'think he's gonna be alright out there by himself?  I mean, he's got Yokozuna, but..."

Kokoro chooses that moment to come in through the open apartment door, while Iceberg sits back on his heels, levels Franky with another look that's not nearly as chilly as the first one was.  Looks like he's thawed out some, but he still doesn't say anything.  Kokoro laughs softly as she carries a tray over to the edge of the empty dock, grinning down at them.

She's the one that answers.

"You boys forget who it is you're talking about?" she asks, cheerful tone breaking the mood.  She hefts the tray over onto her hip.  "Tom's just fine out there.  He's more at home in the water than he is on land.   _ Na-gaga~" _  She glances toward the door, as well.  "Still, I at least wish he'd have come in for supper.  Now, get on up here, boys!  Tom might not be around right now to tell you when it's time to take a break, but I'm sure as sunshine not gonna let you work right through a meal!"

Iceberg's stomach grumbles the same kinda sentiment, loud enough for all three of them to hear.

Kokoro cackles, "Ah, I've got perfect timing, don't I?  You hardly ate anything before you were rushing out the door to help Tom earlier.  Come on, get up here!"

Resigned, Iceberg pockets the flathead and the handful of caps he has left, getting to his feet and pulling the bandana off his head.  Kokoro calls for Franky, next.  Franky grins and hurriedly jams a couple of pegs into the board in front of him, mutters, "Yeah, yeah, hang on just a sec!"  He tightens them in with a few quick twists, catches up to the plank where Iceberg stopped before he drops his stuff next to the track and pulls himself up out of the dry dock.


	12. steam

Iceberg is trying to stabilize the boiler - trying to turn the stuck pressure valve with a wrench, sweat dripping from his chin and elbows and wetting his clothes, muscles burning with the effort.  Tom is leaning in the narrow window with an easy laugh and  _ tired _ eyes and telling him to let it go - when the water tank bursts.

He only remembers the loudness of it.

The heat pooling around his legs and smothering in the steam.

-x-

There's a funky whining noise in the smokebox that Franky doesn't like, but Tom won't let them crack her open until she cools off.  He's padding back to the cab across the top of the engine to let the others know, the metal too hot under his bare feet, when it lurches underneath him - a violent shudder and  _ boom _ that makes him stagger, a piercing wail that makes him cringe.  He has to catch himself on his hands and scramble forward to where the engine slopes, dropping to the ground.  His heart is hammering from the jolt even as he straightens up, and then he hears the gushing hiss of water, metal groaning and giving, and Tom,  _ "ICEBERG!" _

Franky looks down the length of the engine, and sees the steam roiling out of the window, the iron side of the cab bowing outward under Tom's big hands, pulling on the window frame.  He's going to tear the side clean off, but the bolts are fixed with double bearings and they don't give right away, even to Tom.

The train starts to tip.

Something cold sinks into Franky's chest.

Tom wouldn't ruin his own work if he didn't have to.

Franky's moving before he even thinks to do it.  The door is on the other side of the train, no way he's getting around it in time.  He slides under Tom's arm, grabs the frame, puts a foot in the fishman's chest and shoves himself head-first through the window - hears a protest that he doesn't heed as he pulls his legs through, crouching in the windowsill to keep from falling in the water that's pooled in the floor of the cab.  The heat gusts across his face and snatches his breath.

He's pouring sweat already, can hardly assess the damage through the steam, but Franky can see where the water tank burst.  The metal's twisted like a flower opening, and the steam pushed several of the larger pipes out from the valve wall.  The firebox is cracked wide open, a gaping furnace that makes the water boil.

There's a large pipe bowed out right across the cab that's still intact, big enough for him to stand on if he can make it over there - that's where Franky finds Iceberg, passed out and hanging half in the water, both his legs and one arm completely submerged.  Outside, Tom lets go of the train and it thunders back down onto its paddle wheels, leveling out.  The momentum is enough to pull Franky out of the window and he uses it to make the jump to the pipe where Iceberg is, grabbing onto a rod overhead to keep his balance.

It scalds his hand and he quickly lets it go.  He crouches on his toes, grabs the back of Iceberg's shirt and gives him a shake.

"Hey!  Iceberg!"

He can hardly hear himself over the rush of his pulse in his ears, the hot air and the hissing bubble of the water.  He doesn't expect an answer, anyway, because Iceberg moves limply when Franky shakes him again.  Tom sticks his head back in the window to say something, as loud as ever, and Franky hears the sound of it, but can't make out the words.  He gives Tom a thumbs up, puts his arms around Iceberg's chest and picks him up - only there's some unexpected resistance that nearly pulls him right back out of Franky's hands.

He hears Tom's voice again as he glares down into the churning water.  He keeps a hand flat on Iceberg's back - tells himself he won't be able to feel a breath so there's no point in freaking out that he can't - Iceberg's just fine - and puts his other hand in the water, grabbing the leg of Iceberg's jeans.  Franky hisses at the heat, grits his teeth and grabs Iceberg behind the knee.  The jeans tear when he pulls, and it takes both of Franky's hands to get Iceberg free.

They're numb and raw by the time he hefts Iceberg up under his arm again, out of the water - he's nothing but dead weight, hanging heavy in Franky's arms, but Franky doesn't even notice.  He turns back to the window, feels the words tear out of his throat and hopes that Tom can hear them, "I got ‘im, Mr. Tom!"  He's shifting his precarious stand on the pipe and looking around, wondering how the hell he's going to get out, now that he's got in - and then the train tips again.

The movement is sharper than before and it knocks Franky clean off his feet.

He's smashing into the window, banging his shoulder and the side of his head, the water rushing up the side of the train and burning the bottoms of his feet.  Franky just about loses his grip on Iceberg when Tom reaches in through the window.  He pulls them both out as the train eases back upright, an arm around Franky's chest, a hand around Iceberg's tool belt, pulling them both in against his chest.  Franky's head is spinning a little, the world moving too fast as Tom carries them way.

The engine is still huffing steam, hissing and sputtering, but all the water's gone out of the boiler.  It will eventually burn out all the fuel and cool down on it's own, and Tom gives it plenty of space, sets them down a few yards away.  Franky doesn't realize how hard he's holding onto Iceberg until he's the only one holding onto him.  He unfists his hands from the front of Iceberg's shirt and drops him hard on the ground.  Iceberg falls flat on his back, head rolling limply to the side and bandana skewed, a mess of dark hair.  The water pours off of him, spreading and soaking the ground, and he looks for all the world like he's melting away.

He's not moving, and that's not half as scary as the blood down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt - the ugly welt across the side of his forehead that's bleeding pretty heavily.

For a second, Franky's chest feels tight and he can't even move.

The air feels too cold when it hits his lungs, his chest is heaving.  When he backs up - at a gesture from Tom out of the corner of his eye - his hands are hot and shaking, legs wobbly.  He blurts out, because he notices, "He ain't breathin', is he?!" and Tom doesn't even raise his voice when he tells him to hush.

His has a hand on Iceberg's chest.

A moment later the fishman is leaning back, laughter booming in the air.

Kokoro comes running from warehouse with Yokozuna hopping behind her, wondering  _ "What's happened?" _ and  _ "What could possibly be so funny, Tom, is Iceberg alright?!" _  Franky sees the minute movement under wide, webbed fingers - Iceberg's chest rising and falling, a hand twitching up from his side - hears a faint murmur.

A breath gusts out of Franky's lungs - a loud laugh.

-x-

When Iceberg comes to he's propped up on one of the barrels at the kitchen table, something powdery cool over his legs and a shrill ringing in his ears.  That doesn't help the pounding ache between his temples at all, and he squeezes his eyes tight before he opens them.  His vision is swampy - a mesh of colors and blurred light that tilt and dance before they settle - and his neck hurts.  Iceberg groans, slowly lifts his head, but he only feels the vibration in his throat and ears.

He doesn't hear it at all.

Dazed, Iceberg looks around the room as things slip into focus.

His body feels heavy, too hot, and what doesn't feel hot or heavy just  _ hurts _ .

He can feel a bandage around his head, the tug of medical tape.  Vaguely, he remembers hitting it; one of the pipes bursting away from the wall, bright spots of yellow and red.  Kokoro is standing in front of him with an open burlap sack cradled in her arms, a stern set to her mouth that Iceberg knows better than to argue with - but whatever she's saying is directed to Franky, not him.  It takes him a few seconds to realize this, when Kokoro heaves a sigh and shakes her head.

That's when Iceberg feels the hand on his leg.  A firm pat that makes him jolt and look down, a sharp pain that makes him suck in a breath, grit his teeth.  It's flour covering his bare legs and feet, dusting the chair and the floor around him, his jeans where they've been cut away.  It's on Franky's hand as he quickly pulls it back, leaving a palm-print in the flour above Iceberg's knee, the stark red of his skin underneath.

When Iceberg turns his head - a thick, slow movement that feels like too much spinning - he sees Franky's arms.  The angry blisters underneath a layer of flour before Franky tucks his hands into his armpits, hiding them from view.  He looks upset, but Iceberg hears that persistent, shrill ringing instead of whatever angry words Franky has for him.  Iceberg skims over the idea that perhaps that's a good sign the damage to his hearing isn't permanent as he watches Franky mouth and glare at him.

Franky points fingers at both his own ears, asking a clear question.

White powder puffs off him with each loud gesture.

Iceberg's hand is trembling when he lifts it, the nerves ruined, flour dusting off, but he manages a loose fist and puts a thumb up, offers up a queasy smile.  Franky's anger breaks away into a broad grin and he turns.  Behind him, Tom is sitting in one of the other chairs from the table, hands on his vast belly, shaking with mirth.

Iceberg doesn't ask about the boiler.


	13. some great beast

Franky doesn't hear it Kokoro when she calls for Tom the first couple of times.  He's inside the open engine of the train, fitting the boiler tubes into the wall as Iceberg hands them over to him, and Tom is making a lot of noise banging a dent out of the iron plating.  Every other noise is muffled under the piercing bangs, or gets carried away by the distance - Kokoro is standing on the balcony underneath the bridge and they're in the yard below, trying to get the train ready for another test run.  None of them hear her at all until the third time, when she raises her voice and it hits a certain pitch that unmistakably sounds like a growl, pulled from the chest of some great beast.

_ "MR. TOM!" _

The shipwright flinches, yanks the hammer back up before it strikes the iron again.

Iceberg looks startled, as well, tipping one of the narrow pipes against his shoulder and looking up toward the balcony.

"Oh my," he says, and raises his voice, "Ms. Kokoro, what's the matter?"

The late morning sun has them in the shade, for now, but it's just starting to peek around the top of the bridge, bright white lines streaking out against the cloudless blue sky.  Franky has to lean out of the engine, arms resting on the side, before he can even see Kokoro around the chimney.  She cups a hand around her mouth to be sure her voice carries down to them; they can hear her laughter, plain as day now, " _ Ngahaha! _  I'm sorry, boys, nothing's the matter!  Tom!  You've got some customers in the front office!"  She makes a beckoning gesture before she goes back inside.  Tom laughs, straightening up, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He turns to look at them.

"Iceberg," he says, points his thumb over his shoulder, "Go take care of those guys."

Handing the pipe up to Franky, Iceberg turns to look at Tom, eyebrows disappearing under his bandana in surprise.

"Yes, sir."  He picks up the few remaining pipes before he goes, props them up against the side of the engine so that Franky can reach without having to climb out.  Even then he hesitates, watching Franky set the pipe into the wall.  Franky's done this a million times, it feel like - so when Iceberg asks, "Are you sure you've got this, Flaky?" Franky shoots him a dirty look, twisting the pipe into place with a sharp movement.  He bats a gloved hand.

"Yeah, I got this, get away from me."

And he's really glad that Iceberg goes, because it's not three minutes later that he takes a step back too far, onto the grate.  It flips underneath him and Franky slides right down the sloped side of the firebox.  He winds up in the ashpan - stuck bigger than shit - glad that they just cleaned this thing out, at least, and that Tom is the only one around to see him hugging the grate like a monkey, trying to flip it and use the leverage to get himself back out.

The fishman collapses, laughing.

-x-

Franky props his hands on the back of Iceberg's chair, leaning forward so he can watch while Iceberg works on the blueprints for the customer's ship.  He's been at it for most of the day, and he's nearly finished.  It looks like a brigantine.  Franky gets a glimpse of the foremast, fully square rigged, before Iceberg turns the topmost paper and hides it from view.  It's not intentional; he turns the ruler in the opposite direction, pencil moving quick and sure across the light blue paper as he draws out the interior of the ship.  He doesn't comment on Franky hanging over his shoulder, which means he either doesn't care about the audience or is so focused on what he's doing that he just hasn't noticed yet.

Neither one would really surprise Franky.

He spots a couple of scrap papers in the upper corner of the desk, most of them pushed down over a pin to keep them in place.  One of the smaller, loose sheets catches Franky's eye and he reaches over Iceberg's shoulder, pressing two fingers down into the paper and sliding it out from under the stack.  It's a line of funky designs - a swirly pattern he knows he's seen before in the margins of Iceberg's papers, scratched into boards he's sat on for any length of time - and Franky cocks his head at them.  He gets Iceberg's attention, though.  When Iceberg looks up, raises his hand sharply, Franky knows exactly what he plans on doing and snatches the paper, and his hand, back off the desk.

Iceberg's palm hits the desk hard enough to rattle the jar of ink resting on the flat top, the cup of pencils and tools, though thankfully none of it spills.

"Franky!  I'm working!"

Franky laughs, "What're these, anyway?"  He keeps on hand on the back of Iceberg's chair, a foot propped up between the legs of it, but he leans back as Iceberg twists around in his seat.  Franky raises the narrow piece of paper to his face, underneath his nose.  "Designs for a wicked mustache?"

Iceberg looks annoyed, but only sighs, "I don't dig through your desk."

"Well, I ain't got nothin' to hide in my desk."

It's no fun trying to get Iceberg rilled up when he's busy, though.

He doesn't fight for the paper or say anything else, just turns back around and picks up the pencil and ruler from where they've slipped down the desk, rights his paper, and sets back to work.  Franky leans his elbows on the back of Iceberg's chair and watches for a while, crumpling the paper between his thumbs and forefingers.


	14. the things that hurt

It's just a fact of nature - boys growing up together will fight.

Tom's knows it.

Breaking up the tussles and petty arguments, telling them over and over again to get along, only makes them want to fight harder, and his boys are so different it's inevitable that they're going to butt heads over one thing or another.  Iceberg is too serious, Franky not serious enough.  They're both hard workers, but Franky is like a bird, flitting from one project to another, where Iceberg tends to overthink things so much he gets hung up in them.  They'll sort themselves out on their own, given enough time - and neither one of them can hold a candle to the aggression young fishman show at their age, easing into adulthood, so Tom doesn't see any harm in letting them be.

Of course, he has never  _ had _ to break them up before.

Never had to physically pull them off of one another, never had to raise his voice with a BOOM! and still not be heard.

And it's left him puzzled, upset setting in as he looks the two boys over.

He has them sitting beside each other on the chimney from the engine they've dismantled for the third time this week.  Something's just not right on the inside, and it's taking some time to fine tune the engine and work all the little odds and ends out of it.  He understands that they're frustrated - he is, too, probably more than either of them.  It's his neck on the line, after all.  His dream.  But for them to let that frustration come to this...

That Tom doesn't understand at all.

Iceberg's left eye is swelling shut, an ugly purple color blooming across his cheekbone that nearly matches the blue of his hair.  Franky's nose is bleeding freely, might even be broken again if the angle is anything to judge by.  Their chests are heaving, clothes torn, collars stretched, bruises forming where fists connected, busted lips and a number of scrapes bloody and dark.  Iceberg is rubbing his knee and shaking, mouth pressed into a thin line, the anger not quite in his eyes anymore, and Franky's hands are squeezed into fists, his bottom lip between his teeth.  The lens of his goggles are broken out, his eyes red-rimmed, breaths shuddering as they go in.

Tom doesn't know what started the fight, but he can make a fair guess.

He looks to his oldest apprentice.

Iceberg is too harsh with his words, though he usually has a decent point - Franky too easy to rile into anger and too quiet about the things that hurt him.  Tom knows he won't get a word out of Franky, but Iceberg will talk if he asks.  He just isn't sure he wants to hear what the young man has to say right now.

Tom rubs his jaw, silent while he thinks of some way to resolve this and teach them a lesson that's, at his fault, a bit late in coming.  They don't quite respect each other the way he'd hoped they would at this age; are still quick to take each other for granted and throw their childish insults around.  Neither of them are so little, anymore.  They're both just about fully grown, big and strong enough to really hurt each other, whether they mean to or not.  Blows to the body will heal up on their own just fine - it's the other that won't.

He does have a couple of shipments due to come in soon.  The looming overlap of their arrival dates presented a bit of a problem before, risking both shipments on the sea these days.  Now, however, it presents an opportunity.

Tom hums deep in his chest, squares his shoulders.

"I've got a job for you boys."  Iceberg looks up in surprise, hair falling across his face, but Franky doesn't react at all other than to tighten his fists.  He's still glaring at the distance, blood oozing from the cuts across his forehead.  His eyes move in Tom's direction when he continues, "Franky, you're going to San Faldo to pick up that shipment of iron for me.  Iceberg, you'll go to St. Poplar for the six pallets of lumber.  You're both leaving first thing in the morning."

Tom expects the protests that come as the shock sinks in.  The few times either of them have left Water 7 it was with him, to either pick up shipments or work on the railway and never for any real length of time.  The color drains from Franky's face when he blurts out, "What - you're sendin' us way?!"

Iceberg nearly launches up from his seat and it's his injured knee that stops him more than anything else, "Mr. Tom, those shipments aren't due for almost a week!  If we're both gone for that long, who's going to help you repair the engine or -"

"I can do all that myself," Tom says, with a deep finality that makes Iceberg reel back, bottom lip between his teeth, hands shaking where they're gripping the chimney.  It's true, though it isn't fair of him to say.  His boys work hard.  They're just as capable as he is, more capable than most.  But this will teach them some responsibility - maybe something else, once they spend some time without one another.  "I was a master shipwright for many years before you boys came along, and you'll leave first thing in the morning because it's what I've asked you to do.  Stay until the orders are filled, and then bring them home with a BOOM!  Do you understand?"

For a second, he wonders if they might pipe up again.

Franky, he knows, is on the verge of an outburst, but they both buckle under, mutter a reluctant, "Yes, sir."

This will be the longest they've ever been apart since they came here.

Hopefully the distance will do them some good.

-x-

Nine days later, Iceberg's bruises are fading.  He's quiet when he brings the pallets into the warehouse, no longer limping on the knee Franky twisted, smiling at Tom's loud greeting.  He's eager to talk about the trip.  He enjoyed St Poplar as much as Tom suspected he would, and it was the very same with Franky in San Faldo, when the younger man turns up just a few hours later.  The scratches on his forehead are as red and noticeable as the day he left, but they're smaller than before and not likely to scar.  It's odd to see him goggle-less, but Franky is as boisterous as ever, standing on top of the iron beams when Tom and Iceberg both come out to see it, bouncing on his toes and grinning.

"Lookie here, lookie here!" he sings, his hands on his hips, "Came back in one piece!  Or should I say,  _ several pieces _ \- all ready to be a Sea Train!!"

Tom had given both of them plenty of money before they left; enough to cover the cost of the orders, their lodgings and meals, and some extra to do with as they pleased.  Heading back into the warehouse, Iceberg remembers it and tries to give all the extra money back to Tom, and then some - Franky barely has anything left at all, but he does the same, pulling the small wad of cash out of his shirt pocket, looking incredulous when Tom laughs and tells them both to keep it, that they earned it.

Iceberg accepts it without a word.

Franky is stupefied.

"What the hell, Iceberg," he says, but he's laughing, "How're you gonna come home with so much money?  That's super messed up!"

"Oh my.  Not at all!"  Iceberg is smiling as he pockets the money.  "I got the woodcutters to come down on the price."

"Show off!  It wasn't a contest; hell, I partied my brains out!!"

"As if you had any to begin with, Flaky."

"Hey, at least I know how to have a good time, ice for brains!  You probably stayed cooped up in your hotel the whole time!"

Their bantering carries over well into supper, but it's the easy, laughing kind that Tom sorely missed.  They bump elbows a lot at the table, compare stories and makes jokes about the townspeople they saw.  They both noticed the glaringly difference between the other cities and how things are in Water 7 - the living standards, the crime rate, how at ease the people are - and voice their mutual concerns, show an eagerness to get back to work before the name-calling starts again.  Kokoro takes a seat beside Tom, shakes her head and smiles as she watches Iceberg take a new pair of goggles out of his bag and hand then to Franky, listens to Franky call him a jerk and deny that he's crying as he pulls them on.

(He just has pepper in his eyes, that's all.)

"I guess your plan didn't work the way you wanted to, huh, Tom?" she asks with a quiet cackle, chin resting in her palm, "They're the same as ever."

Tom only laughs harder, leaning back in his chair.  Maybe Kokoro doesn't see it the way he does.  Maybe she doesn't hear the things they don't say - the way Iceberg smiles and comments on how quiet it was, how Franky laughs, saying that he barely got any sleep at night.


End file.
